To Challenge the Earl of Cravenswood (Wicked Wagers 3) (7 page)

Sanity fled when she heard heavy footsteps and voices approaching along the corridor, heading towards the door of this very room. She froze, holding her breath. The men should all be out riding. 

The footsteps stopped outside the door. An icy sweat broke over her skin. If she were found in his room, it would certainly ensure she ended up wed to Henry St. Giles.

Hide, you fool.
The dressing room? No, she’d never reach it in time; already the door handled turned.
Under the bed!
She dived just as the door began to open and scrambled beneath the large oak frame, her heart pounding in her chest. 

From under the bed she saw Henry’s booted feet, and to her horror, a woman’s slippered feet entered the doorway as well.

Please, please don’t let it be a liaison.

Amy tried to ignore the sudden pain in the region of her heart. Why should she care that Henry forgo riding to have some afternoon delight with... 

“Darling, I know why you cried off joining the other gentlemen for an afternoon ride. You’d much prefer to be riding me.”

At the woman’s seductive purr Amy stifled a gasp. Her ears burned. Oh, my God, it was Lydia, her brother’s wife.
Please, please don’t let her discover me under Henry’s bed.
She inched herself toward the other side of the bed. To her horror Amy had a clear view of the couple in the cheval mirror.

She watched in mortification as Lydia pushed Henry into the room and began to close the door behind her. Henry immediately shoved his booted foot in the way so that the door could not fully close.

“Now, Lydia, run back to the ladies, there’s a good girl. I simply came up here to get my gloves.”

Henry’s voice held a hint of annoyance.
Good for you.
Amy knew her brother’s marriage was like her parents, a merger of family wealth and an alignment of assets, but Lydia had yet to give her brother his heir.

“Don’t be shy, Henry. All the ladies know you’ve struck a bit of a drought. Some of us are wondering if your
weapon
still works.”

Amy bit her lip to stop from defending Henry. His
weapon
seemed to be in working order in his garden the other night. 

“It doesn’t work with married women. I don’t let it.”

Amy gritted her teeth as she watched Lydia reach out and stroke Henry’s
weapon
. Henry didn’t stop her.
Men!

After a lengthy silence, Lydia murmured, “My, my, it does work. Why don’t you close the door and I’ll help end your famine. The ladies of the
ton
will be pleased to hear you’re back in working order.”

“How much do you win for
cocking my weapon
?”

Lydia laughed gaily and dropped to her knees, her hands fumbling with the placket of his trousers. “Not as much as I’ll gain in pleasure, I assure you.”

Amy slunk further under the bed, she couldn’t watch this. Lydia on her knees fumbling with Henry’s trousers was not a sight she wished to see, although why Lydia had to be on her knees to undo his trousers was a mystery.

But Henry swiped her hands away. “I’m sorry but this is one wager you’ll lose,” and he lifted Lydia back onto her feet and pushed her none too gently out into the corridor and shut the door on her indignant face.

“Not what I bloody needed this week. A bitch in heat.”

Amy stifled her giggle. At least Henry had good taste in his women. Her smile faded as she noted Henry didn’t walk to his armoire to collect his gloves. Instead, he sank down on the end of his bed, his booted feet almost within touching distance of where she lay.

Amy heard him sigh and with racing heart she watched in the mirror as he lay back on the bedspread, and began to fumble with the his trousers. 

Her heart almost stopped. She watched in fascination as he reach inside and draw out his ‘in prime working order’ manhood. He spit in his hand. She clamped her hand over her mouth to mute her gasp. She shouldn’t look. She knew what he was about to do. You didn’t grow up with a brother and not at some stage stumble upon him pleasuring himself. 

This was an intimate moment and she had no right to intrude.

She held her breath least she disturb the silence settling over the room. Her mind screamed at her to reveal herself before he went any further, but embarrassment and fear of the consequences kept her silent. She lay quietly and turned her head away from the mirror so she could not peek.

Amy offered up a silent prayer, hoping he would finish quickly. She lay as tense as a woman waiting for the guillotine to fall. 

Then the most erotic sounds flooded her hearing, arousing groans, soft sighs and the sound of skin intimately touching skin.
Don’t you dare turn your head!
But the urge defeated her. She moved and let her eyes stray to the mirror. 

Heat flooded every inch of her skin as she breathlessly watched Henry St. Giles take his earthy pleasure. 

Liquid oozed from the tip of his rather large shaft, making the dark-plum head glisten. He palm slid faster and faster over his straining rod, only to slow down and almost stop, before speeding up once again.

His breathing became irregular. He began to move on the bed. She could see where the imprint of his body was twisting, and he thrust his hips forcing his erection through his white-knuckled fist. 

His heavy breathing turned to grunts, growing in volume and intensity, and the headboard began to knock gently against the wall. His eyes were closed, his neck corded with tension. His shirt rose up and she glimpsed his flat, and rippled with muscles, stomach. A dusting of brown hair arrowed a path to his groin, where his phallus arose wrapped in his hand. She had never seen anything so magnificent.

Amy’s face felt like it was hanging over burning coals. The image of a naked Henry flashed in her brain. It was nothing like the sight in the mirror.

She closed her eyes, and covered her ears, trying to block the sight and sounds from above. His movements became more boisterous and his groans grew in volume. 

She tried not to look and listen but part of her wanted to hear him. Definitely wanted to see him. Her breath came in quick little gasps, her breasts felt tight and uncomfortable within her bodice and a warm pulse beat between her thighs. She’d never seen or heard anything so erotic. 

The image of Henry pleasuring himself...sent feminine heat crawling over her skin. The primal urge to enjoy the masculine beauty of the act made her curl up into a ball.

His frantic grunts, almost snarling in his passion, only made the scene more erotic. She watched Henry, exposed on the bed, his fist wrapped around his phallus, his hips lifting, his body thrusting through his fist...She knew he was big, she’d felt how large when he lay atop her in the garden, but he looked enormous. 

She remembered his kisses and how his fingers felt when they’d delved deep within her. She’d wanted to touch him that night but she’d been too overwhelmed by the feelings he evoked in her. Too much a coward.

What would he feel like if she were the one fondling him? What would he think if she crawled out from under the bed and offered to help? Scandalous! The desire to do so, to touch him...she almost let out a moan herself.

She pulsed all over. His sounds grew louder, the bed creaked and groaned under his movements, the headboard banging in a steadily increasing rhythm, until finally he let out a roar and cursed like a blue-blood pirate. She felt him flop onto the bed above her on a drawn out sigh, and she watched Henry shudder and relax, slowly working his manhood until it went soft. His breath still coming in rasps. 

Yet Amy didn’t feel relaxed at all. Her nerves strung tight. Her body primed like a pistol about to fire. Good God, she wished she could touch herself in the same way. 

In the ensuing silence Amy wondered what he had been thinking as he stroked himself. He’d more than likely dreamed about the lady whose name he’d uttered as he lay atop her in the garden on that titillating night. 

Her arousal vanished, and her salacious thoughts halted altogether when an object hit the floor. It appeared to have bounced off the bed. It must have been lose on the bedclothes. It glittered in the sunlight spilling into the room. 

Her earring. 

He’d been holding her earring.

She watched him clean himself up with his handkerchief. “Pathetic, one fumble in a darkened garden and you can’t get the woman out of your mind.”

Amy shoved her fist in her mouth. 

Without thought her fingers inched out from under the bed, reaching for the gem, only to snatch them back when Henry sat up.

The heady joy dissipated when she remembered he didn’t know who she was. He’d simply taken his pleasure to a nameless, faceless woman.

She slid further under the bed when Henry bent and retrieved the earring. He stood, straightening his clothes, and placed the earring in his pocket. He buttoned up the placket of his trousers.

He briefly glanced at himself in the mirror, tidying his hair before pivoting, collecting his gloves and leaving the room. Amy breathed a sigh of relief but waited a good ten minutes after she heard Henry’s booted feet descend the stairs. Then she crept out from under the bed, noted her flushed countenance and knew she had to seek fresh air. 

#

Henry needed some fresh air. His mouth worked to swallow past his disbelief.

Amy Shipton was his mystery lady, he was sure of it. Little Amy. His neighbor. 

Tinkles! He bet there never was a Tinkles.
The bloody conniving...
an hour he’d been crawling in the dirt looking for a guinea pig. 

He’d like to put her over his knee and spank her till her bottom turned red.
That’s not all you’d like to do.

He’d like nothing more than to turn around, march back up the stairs, and pull Amy Shipton out from under his bed and lay her firmly atop it, then do all the things he’d just dreamed of doing.

She
was
his mystery lady.

Why else would Amy Shipton be in his room and under his bed? He’d obviously caught her hunting for her earring. 

At least Henry now knew who the earring belonged too. He hadn’t quite known what to think when he’d glimpsed a pale, delicate hand in the cheval mirror, inching out from under the bed toward the piece of jewellery that had rolled onto the floor. He’d been holding it while he’d dreamed of lush curves and satin skin. 

Then he’d taken a longer look in the mirror, letting his eyes drift up the gloved arm and follow it to its owner, and he’d seen Amy cowering under the bed.

What had she felt as she watched him? Had her stormy eyes widened in shock, or had she grown aroused, her body heating, her heart racing, seeing his hand gripping his erection...

Images and memories of the lush feminine body, Amy’s body, as he lay atop her in his garden, had aroused him to an explosive finish. Christ, if merely thinking about her could bring him such ecstasy, what would actually making love to her be like? 

If he’d known she was watching, he wouldn’t have been able to last more than a minute. Already the thought of her seeing his primitive male display made his groin ache, and he felt himself begin to harden again.

He’d known instinctively not to confront her. She’d have been mortified, and he had yet to work out why she was keeping her identity a secret.

She obviously felt at least desire for him, as she’d not run screaming from the garden. He could still hear her moans of pleasure in his head.

The puzzle deepened. 

Most likely she was worried about her reputation. A lady’s reputation was all she had to ensure a good match. She was the daughter of a duke after all.

He’d once recommended Amy as a suitable candidate to become Marcus’s wife. Why had he never considered that she’d be perfect for him? Millie – she looked too much like Millicent.

He briefly wondered why Amy wasn’t already betrothed. He stopped in his tracks and frowned. Hell, she wasn’t, was she? Betrothed? Is that why she was so desperate to retrieve her property? It was scandalous what had occurred in his garden. It might ruin a match for her.

He continued on his way to the stable, his temperament somewhat dismayed. 

He hoped he wasn’t too late and that she did not already belong to another. What a silly sod he’d been to have a woman of Amy’s ilk in his street and not have noticed.

When mounted, he set his horse to a gallop and quickly caught up with the rest of the men. He eyed them all in a new light. Was there anyone here who could be a rival for Amy’s hand? 

Comte Le Page, the enigmatic Frenchman who owned estates in France and England, was rumored to be wife hunting. He’d been one of the men flocking around Amy at Lady Skye’s ball. Henry hoped Amy hadn’t fallen for the dark, swarthy type, or he was in trouble.

Then there was the Earl of Roehampton. Bertie was nothing to look at, true, but he was one of the wealthiest men in the Kingdom and Amy’s father would look favorably on a match.

 “Is something the matter?”

Marcus’s question interrupted his analysis of his competition. He’d not even heard him riding up.

“Who drafted the guest list for this gathering, you or Sabine?”

Marcus looked over the men riding in front of them. “Strange mix isn’t it. Sabine. And I believe Caitlin helped make up the list.”

For some reason Henry hesitated revealing he had learned the identity of the lady whose earring burned in his pocket. Something was going on here. Marcus had been pushing Amy’s cause vigorously.

Marcus continued. “I think they’ve taken it upon themselves to find Amy a husband. Sabine wants to repay Amy for her kindness. Sabine feels she owes her since Amy helped save her life.”

“I’m sure Amy doesn’t need any help finding a husband.”

Marcus nodded. “True. However, Sabine says Amy’s father is determined to see her married by the end of the season and is pushing a match with Chesterton.”

Henry’s heart clenched. Chesterton wasn’t good enough for Millicent or Amy. 

“I feel the need for speed.” With that Henry gathered his stallion and took off at a gallop.